


calling your name in the midnight hour

by saccarines (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Depression, It's All Lightly Referenced, M/M, Nobody Actually Commits Suicide Though, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Suicidal Tendancies, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/saccarines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been seeing you biweekly since you left SHIELD headquarters for an apartment of your own, and we have yet to mention the elephant in the room.”  </p><p>Steve swallows, tastes something like ash or stone or sand, and even though he knows what Dr. Bennet is getting at he plays innocent, “which is?”  </p><p>Dr. Bennet gives him the Look – the one that means he sees through Steve’s act and doesn’t appreciate it – and holds out his hands. “James Barnes, Captain Rogers.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	calling your name in the midnight hour

**Author's Note:**

> [soooooooo](http://thelittlestcrane.tumblr.com/post/82912267519/au-where-steve-and-bucky-were-soul-mates-before)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I also made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/thelittlestcrane/calling-your-name-in-the-midnight-hour). Feel free to listen while you read ~
> 
> The ending of this feels a little rushed, but overall I think I'm satisfied. I'm mostly posting this without it being edited so if there are any glaring errors, please let me know!!

"May I be honest with you, Captain Rogers?"  

Steve's world comes rushing back to him at the question, forcing itself from the fuzzy haze it rests in when there's no one to talk with and no missions to complete and no team to manage. He glances at the clock - it's 12:52, he's in Washington D.C., and it's 2014 - before meeting the eyes of the man sitting across from him. He's a soft-spoken individual, much like Dr. Banner, and he's sturdy, not so easily deflected by the face that Steve so often shows the world. His hairline is receding, but there's no loss of color, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are softened by square-frame glasses.   

“Of course,” Steve answers on autopilot, but it’s not untrue. He appreciates honesty in people, especially lately, when half of SHIELD is shooting smiles full of pity to his face and the other half is shooting them to his back.   

Dr. Bennet sets down his pen, folding his arms across the desk. Steve tries not to stare at the small mark on the inside of the man’s left wrist, keeping his eyes trained politely on Dr. Bennet’s. “I’ve been seeing you biweekly since you left SHIELD headquarters for an apartment of your own, and we have yet to mention the elephant in the room.”  

Steve swallows, tastes something like ash or stone or sand, and even though he knows what Dr. Bennet is getting at he plays innocent, “which is?”  

Dr. Bennet gives him the Look – the one that means he sees through Steve’s act and doesn’t appreciate it – and holds out his hands. “James Barnes, Captain Rogers.”  

Steve glances back at the clock – five minutes to go – “I’d rather not, Dr. Bennet.”  

“Captain Rogers,” Dr. Bennet is using the Tone – the one that means he knows Steve is going to try and coast through the last five minutes with one-word responses and sharp nods of his head – as he rests his forearms on his desk, “to my knowledge, your time with me is the only time you open up to anyone about anything. You don’t spend time with SHIELD agents or civilians outside of work-related incidents. When New York was attacked, I thought you would find companionship with at least one of the people Fury put on that team, but your schedule is more military than personal.”  

Steve sits back in the chair, resting his palms on his knees. “I talk to Agent Romanov.”  

“Outside of work-related incidents, Captain Rogers.” Dr. Bennet adjusts his glasses out of habit. “Captain, please trust me when I say that I understand why talking about Barnes is difficult for you-”  

“ _No_ , you don’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he has the chance to stop them.  

Dr. Bennet intertwines his fingers, raising his eyebrows.  

“You _don’t_ ,” Steve stands, feeling justified for cutting the session short, even if it’s not by much. “Everyone who wants me to talk about it has no idea what it’s like to even _think_ about talking about it.”  

“Captain, _you_ are allowed to move on,” Dr. Bennet says. “There are hundreds of cases, even within SHIELD, where one half of a broken bond is able to move on and form a new bond with another person.”  

“That doesn’t interest me,” Steve says, tone like steel.  

“And that, Captain Rogers, is what worries me. It’s been seventy years-”  

 _Not for me_ , Steve wants to snap.  

“-and your resistance to moving on is starting to show. You’re slipping, Captain.”  

Steve feels his hard-won mask of patience slip right off his face. “Are you saying that because I don’t want to jump into a new relationship, I’m…what, defective?”  

“Much of society would think that,” Dr. Bennet nods, “but no, that’s not what I’m saying. You don’t have to forge a new bond with someone to heal, Captain Rogers, but you _do_ have to accept the fact that James Barnes is no longer with you. You have to let him go.”  

Steve presses his fingers to fists, turning towards the door. “I already did that,” he says, and the words come out choked instead of firm, despite his best intentions, “that’s the problem.”  

  

* * *

 

“So,” Bucky’s tone is dull, duller than you have ever wanted to hear it, “they made you bigger.” 

“Yeah,” you nod, glad that the tent you’ve been given is private. Convincing Bucky to come see you after he was done in medical had been surprisingly difficult, and now Bucky isn’t looking at you, and you can’t feel anything from Bucky but…emptiness. “Hasn’t seemed to change much else, though.” 

“No. No, you’re still a stupid punk who can’t take no for an answer.” 

The tone isn’t…fond. Not at all. “Bucky-” 

“What was wrong with you before, huh?” 

“I can’t fight a war lookin’ like I did back then,” you say, partially in disbelief. “I don’t have to worry about getting sick anymore either.” 

“Why did you have to go and get yourself sent over here?” Bucky snaps. “You should’a stayed in Brooklyn, Steve. You were safe there.” 

You feel a flash of irritance at Bucky’s words. “What would happen if I wasn’t? You could have died back there, Buck!” 

“Now you can too!” Bucky’s voice is bordering on…you have never heard Bucky sound like this. “Don’t you fucking _get_ _it_ , Steve? Better me than you! You’re too-. You can’t die. You were safe there and now you’re not.” 

“Better you than me? What the hell, Bucky?” Your irritance turns into full-blown anger. “You think I wouldn’t, what, _care_ if you died?” 

“I know you would, but you’d move on. Hell, you’d probably be better off. I can’t do that Steve, I can’t watch you die, not when you’re the only-. God, _why_ did you have to come here? War isn’t _fun_ , Steve. It’s not fucking worth it!” 

“Bucky!” 

“No!” Bucky lifts his arms, running his fingers through his hair and tugging. His eyes are wet, and you can finally put a name to the tone in his voice. Hysteria.

“Fuck, Steve, you don’t even have a mark anymore.” Bucky takes an unsteady breath. “I can’t _feel_ you.” 

“Oh, Buck,” you swallow, reaching out. Bucky moves his hand away the first try, but you catch him on the second. “The mark…it disappeared during the surgery, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t still bonded.” 

“Fuck you, Steve,” Bucky says, tongue darting out across his lips. His chest is rising and falling rapidly in a way it reminds you of before the surgery, only you’re supposed to be the one with trouble breathing, not Bucky. “I can’t _feel_ you anymore. What does that tell you?” 

“That we’ve both been through an ordeal, but you especially,” you begin carefully, “and that maybe you need some rest and some food before you’re up to feeling other people’s emotions.” 

“Don’t _patronize_ me, Steve,” Bucky scowls. “I’ve never had to have any of that to feel you before.” 

“Bucky, you were being-” You have to stop to take a breath because the image still burns in your mind – Bucky strapped down, muttering his numbers over and over – “and we marched _miles_ to get back here, who knows how long you’ve been without proper food. Just-” You knows you’re pulling out all the stops, but you’re hoping your time apart hasn’t made Bucky more resistant to your pleading. “Stay in here tonight. In the morning, things will look different.” 

“You don’t have your mark,” Bucky repeats. 

“I don’t have to,” you try to reassure him. “Our bond is deeper than that, remember?” Even so, you find yourself pressing the pad of your thumb to Bucky’s mark, hoping it will give him at least a little comfort. 

“What if nothing looks different in the morning?” Bucky puts it bluntly. 

“Well, you might not be able to feel what I’m feeling,” you go for a shrug, “but I think you probably know me well enough by now to make some decent guesses.” 

Bucky takes another shaky breath, using his free hand to rub at his reddened eyes, and you try not to think about the fact that it’s your fault Bucky looks to be on the verge of a breakdown. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” you smile. “So let’s get some sleep, okay?” 

“You’re a real piece of work, Rogers.” Bucky reclaims his hand from your hold, shuffling towards the two rolls of bedding on the ground.

(Once again, you’re incredibly grateful to Peggy for acting on her intuition).

You finally reply once Bucky’s settled onto the ground, once it’s clear that Bucky is going to stay. “That’s what I’ve been told.” 

You let the silence overwhelm the both of you, and even though you’re the one who’s trying to be the steadfast, reassuring one, you can’t help the question that comes tumbling out of your mouth.

“If you’re right, and nothing changes in the morning…you’re still my guy, right Buck?”

Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair and looking at you like you’re an idiot. “Shit, Steve. Always.”

 

* * *

 

Steve never makes a return visit to Dr. Bennet’s office, but to be fair he doesn’t get the chance. Instead, his morning run takes him across the path of one Sam Wilson – a man Steve can probably consider the first friend he’s made since waking up to the future. He executes a rescue mission despite the bumps (secrets) in the road, learns about Project Insight, and then-  

Then, Steve meets the Winter Soldier.  

 

* * *

 

 

Steve hurls the shield as a last-ditch effort to stop the sniper. That he’s outrun is a rare thing, an impossible thing really, and Steve isn’t about to let the shooter get away. He’s not expecting the man to turn around. He’s not expecting the man to lift his shining arm – and now that Steve has a better vantage point he can see that it’s made of metal – and catch his shield like it’s nothing more than a toy.   

He is not expecting to get his first look at the sniper’s face – dark hair, face mostly covered by a mask, black paint shaded around his eyes – and-  

It’s like the air that’s been hovering just out of reach (since Bucky died; and it’s horribly ironic to think that he doesn’t want to breathe without Bucky but it comes so easily to this body) rushes back into his lungs, packing as much force as a punch. It’s like everything that’s been _wrongwrongwrong_ since he woke is suddenly _right_.   

Steve _knows_ this feeling. He knows it from the back alleys of New York, and a cold apartment, and the crisp lines of a military uniform, and finding Bucky tied down to that table in Zola’s lab, and-  

 _No!_   

The sniper has lowered his arm, just slight enough for Steve to know he’s feeling… _something_ (it’s either that, or he’s not taking advantage of Steve’s distraction, and considering he’d just shot Fury down Steve finds that hard to accept), but there’s confusion in his dark (…blank) eyes.  

All at once, the air is pulled back from Steve – the sniper is shutting himself away. He brings back his arm, throwing the shield back to Steve before he has the chance to recover from the loss. It sends him skidding back a few feet, and by the time Steve looks up, the sniper is going over the ledge of the roof.   

Steve rushes to the edge, but the shooter is nowhere in sight when he looks down at the street below. Steve sets his jaw, clenching his fingers around the hold of his shield. Anger, shame, and guilt all flood into Steve’s chest, filling him up.  

How could something like this happen?  

(Dr. Bennet’s last words to him ring in the back of his mind.)  

He’s...formed a bond – or at least has the potential to – with the man who _shot_ Fury.  

 _How could he do this to Bucky?_   

 

* * *

 

You know you’re not being very subtle, but you also know that means Bucky has been staring out the window for the better part of an hour because he doesn’t want you to stop. He’s on his second cigarette, letting it hang out the open window when he isn’t taking a drag, sitting on the windowsill with one bare foot braced against the structure and one keeping his balance on the floor.  

You darkens the line of Bucky’s wrist, blowing on the paper to chase any lingering graphite away. “If you keep staring at the sun, you’ll be squinting forever.”  

Bucky snorts, “who says my eyes are open?”  

You tap your eraser on the edge of the sketch paper, considering the question. You let your gaze wander down Bucky’s form, eventually resting on the inside of his left wrist where a mark, just slightly darker than the color of his skin, lays.  

“Now who’s staring?”  

You scoff, “I’m drawing you.”  

“Nah, it’s a different stare.” Bucky peeks over his shoulder, and the grin on his face makes warmth bubble in your chest. Bucky’s grin only widens, letting you know that he’s feeling it too. “Why, Mr. Rogers, I do believe you’ve got devious intentions for me.”  

“Oh, yes,” you roll your eyes. “Next I’ll sketch you in the buff. It’s all part of my wicked plan to have my way with you.”  

“Doesn’t sound so wicked,” Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette out the open window (you frown at the action, but Bucky ignores it) and coming back inside. He walks to your side, peering down at the paper. “Damn. You really are good.”  

“You say that every time.” You poke at Bucky’s side with your pencil. “Why, Mr. Barnes, I’m beginning to suspect flattery is a means to an end.”  

Bucky laughs, “not necessarily. You get all soft when I turn on the charm. I like the feeling.”  

“Bucky-”  

“Yeah, see, that’s the feeling I’m talking about.” Bucky avoids the next jab, stepping to the side.   

“Jerk.”  

“Maybe. You love me anyway.”   

You scoff, looking back to your paper so Bucky can’t see your cheeks flush, though he can probably feel the reciprocation through your bond (and _that_ always makes your feel warm – _your_ bond).   

“Yeah, well. Shows how good my taste is.”  

“I got news for you, pal. It shows your taste is fantastic.”  

 

* * *

 

 

 “I don’t know what to do.”  

It’s not hard to admit – especially to Sam – as Steve sits at his kitchen table. Natasha is in the bathroom, either showering or pretending to shower while eavesdropping (though after everything, Steve is more than willing to invite her into the conversation), and Sam leans against one of the counters, arms folded.   

“That’s.” Sam lets out a slow breath. “Okay, I’m not going to lie. That’s messed up.”  

Steve tips back his head, staring up at the ceiling. Sam’s words fall short of what Steve feels about the situation. It’s more than messed up, it’s horrible. Forming a new bond with _anyone_ is unthinkable to him, but to an enemy? To the man who had killed Nick Fury? 

(The Winter Soldier, Natasha had called him. You’re fucked, her tone had told him.) 

It’s _disloyal_. It’s an affront to Bucky’s memory. It’s-. It’s not supposed to feel right or good, and for a moment it had, and that’s the worst part of the entire situation.  

“Does anyone else know about you and Barnes?” 

Steve nods, “SHIELD. They had me in therapy for it,” and that makes Steve just a little hollow inside because what if he’d been spilling his secrets to Hydra all along? “The Commandos did, but I’m guessing they kept it under wraps after I brought the plane down.” Steve shifts, listening to the chair creak under his weight. “Peggy might have known. I never asked.” 

“The Avengers?” 

Steve shakes his head, “Natasha and Agent Barton, because they’re SHIELD. The Avengers…we weren’t that close.” 

Sam whistles, long and low, and Steve appreciates that the look on his face is sympathy rather than pity.  

“And now you’re blaming yourself?” 

Steve glances at Sam before turning his gaze back to the ceiling.  

“Bonds can be accidental, you know. You shouldn’t blame yourself.” 

“I already have a bond.” 

“Yeah, but your biology isn’t always on track with your brain.” Sam is using the same tone of voice Steve has heard him use at the V.A., and it makes Steve wonder – briefly – if there’s more to Sam’s story than he lets on. “Biologically, Barnes isn’t your partner anymore. Regardless of what _your_ mind wants, bonds have a mind of their own.” 

Steve knows that. He knows there isn’t a real reason he should feel guilty because he didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask to be woken up to a place where Bucky isn’t with him, and he didn’t ask for recompense from the universe in the form of a new bond. He knows that Sam is right, but… 

He can’t help it. He _does_ feel guilty. He feels guilty for a lot of things (for letting Bucky fall, for not falling too, for freezing instead of dying), but this feels worse than any of the others. Worse because even if he could never make up for the other things, he could still help people and do some good – _has_ been helping people and doing good. But forming a bond with someone who isn’t Bucky…no amount of helping people will make that go away. Nothing _good_ can come of it. It’s not something he can make amends for.

“I hate to interrupt,” Natasha drawls from the doorway – and Steve doesn’t remember hearing the shower turn off – “but we have other things to worry about.”

Despite her stern words, there’s something in her eyes that makes it clear she isn’t belittling him, merely stating facts. 

“Right,” he says. “Everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

She nods, crossing her arms, “and I think it’s about time we find out who’s giving the orders.”

 

* * *

 

 

You aren’t the type to waste a whole day in bed when you aren’t feeling sick. It’s rare enough that you don’t feel like your body is working against you that you usually wants to use the time to go out, to the park or anywhere really. Today, though, you want nothing more than to laze around and, well…let Bucky be _Bucky_ (which entails things like putting up with nicknames and letting Bucky take care of you and other guilty pleasures that you won’t admit to having).

Like now, Bucky is in the kitchen fumbling his way through breakfast – which will probably end up being oatmeal (again) – as you lounge on your stomach in bed, legs folded in the air. The window is open, letting cool air blow the meager curtains around, but you’re up high enough in the complex that no one from the ground can see inside.

You take a deep breath of the air, resting your chin on folded arms. Your body is covered only by the thin sheet strewn over the bed, and most of it is piled against the wall, but you don’t feel as self-conscious about your state of undress as you usually do. In fact, you’ve been feeling nothing but calm in the short hour you’ve been awake.

You turn your head towards the doorway when Bucky comes back through, two cups (you’d run out of clean bowls the night before) of oatmeal in his hands. He shoots you a grin, setting them on the trunk at the foot of the bed before hopping over the footboard, landing precariously close to your legs.

“How’re you feeling?”

You push your hair out of your way, making a mental note to find a pair of shears later on. “Good. Weather’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Bucky grins, lying down alongside you. He tosses his arm over your waist, pulling you bodily closer. “View’s pretty nice too.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t disagree. You’re letting Bucky be Bucky after all. “Did the stove work this time?”

“Yep. Old Mr. Collins fixed it up good.” Bucky angles himself until he can rest his chin on your head.

“We should give him something.”

“He said he didn’t want nothin’,” Bucky shrugs. “He’s got a soft spot for you.”

You hum, focus drifting between Bucky’s words and the vibrations against you as Bucky speaks. You’re warm where Bucky is pressed against you, and that warmth seeps through your skin and into your chest, filling you up with feelings you don’t have a name for (except _right_ , and _good_ , and _this is where you’re meant to be_ ).

And just like that, something in your mind just _clicks_ , because this _is_ where you’re meant to be. It doesn’t matter that it’s dangerous; all that matters is that you spend every moment you have with Bucky. Bucky is...is stumbling through the front door in pain because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut and having someone to patch you up. Bucky is rubbing your back on the Ferris Wheel at Coney Island because you don’t like heights, but you promised to go with him and the Cyclone is next, so you stay put with fierce determination. Bucky is pressing your feet together under the dining table and hiding smiles from his siblings and parents. Bucky is _home_.

(And really, you’ve always known that, but there’s a difference between knowing and _knowing_.)

Bucky ruffles your hair before he sits back up, reaching over the footboard for the cups of oatmeal. “I’m adding naked breakfast in bed to my list of best things about rooming together, by the way.”

“Hah,” you take the offered cup. “Don’t pretend it wasn’t already number one.”

“Number two,” Bucky corrects with a wink. “Number one is definitely what _leads_ to naked breakfast in bed.”

You roll your eyes at his answer, but a little part of you agrees.

Both of you eat your breakfast in relative silence, and you can’t help but notice the warm feeling in your chest hasn’t gone away even though Bucky isn’t pressed against you anymore (and that it matches the look in Bucky’s eyes).

It’s not until later, when the two of you wind up tangled together in the bathtub, that you notice the mark on the inside of your wrist, and the one on Bucky’s that is a perfect match.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s conversation with Sam, and the guilt, is still fresh in his mind when a metal hand breaks through the top of the car and throws Sitwell into traffic (and whether or not Sitwell is… _was_ Hydra, Steve’s stomach churns at the action because Sitwell deserved a trial, not an execution). He doesn’t have time to dwell as bullet start to rain through the roof, barely has time to think as Natasha clambers onto his lap right before the car jerks to a halt and throws their assailant onto the street.

Steve’s stomach churns again, this time for a different reason. The Winter Soldier is in full combat regalia, complete with dark goggles to hide his eyes (it’s a welcome thing, actually, considering what happened the last time Steve saw those eyes). Before they can even think about vacating the car, several things happen in quick succession; they are hit from behind and sent moving down the road, the Soldier hops up on the hood of the car and wrenches the steering wheel out from the front windshield, and Steve barely has time to grab them all and drop them out of the car before it goes careening into the barrier of the highway.

Things happen quickly after that.

Steve takes a hit meant for Natasha that sends him off the bridge, and he doesn’t know what happens to her after except he’s almost positive she’s on the move and the Winter Soldier is giving chase – it’s like he can feel the grim determination radiating through his mind, except he knows it isn’t _his_ grim determination. He’s brought back to the more pressing issue when bullets begin to break through the bus, giving him little choice but to evacuate.

Sam takes down most of the men around him that are firing, and Steve takes care of the rest, leaving Sam to hold the area. He takes off after Natasha – or at least the direction he thinks (feels) is the right one – at a dead run.

Steve doesn’t know how far he runs, or how long it takes him to catch up to them, but by the time he finds them the Winter Soldier is shooting to kill and Steve doesn’t have time to think of anything except running up the hood of the car and hoping he’ll be a good enough distraction.

He is.

The Winter Soldier refocuses his efforts entirely on Steve, starting with a vicious punch to the shield that Steve feels throb all the way up his arms. In the back of his mind (where it’s not really his mind) he feels the pressing urge to _disarm, dismantle_ and the more concerning urge of _render unconscious_.

The Winter Soldier isn’t fighting to kill. He’s fighting to keep.

Steve doesn’t know if the Winter Soldier knows Steve can feel the…objectives coming off him in waves, and he doesn’t know if the Winter Soldier can feel his own emotions (ranging anywhere from anger to caution to survival instinct), but their fight is just short of a dialogue. For every hit Steve delivers, the Soldier is there to hit back. For every block the Soldier breaks, Steve lashes out with another move.

For a horrible moment, it’s like they’re the only two people in the world, and they’re at each other’s throats.

(There is something wrong with this image.)

Somehow, that’s the thought that fuels Steve into getting the upper hand. He grapples with the Soldier until he can lock his arms around the man’s waist and flip him over, locking his arm in a dead grip. He intends to bring the shield down on his arm, but the Soldier moves quick enough so that it cracks against his mask instead, and when Steve tosses him down the street his mask doesn’t follow.

Steve is breathing hard, half his mind reminding him that Natasha’s been shot and probably needs medical help, the other half telling him that if he doesn’t bring down the Winter Soldier they’re all dead (and another, muffled half screaming at him for even thinking of bringing the Soldier down).

The Soldier stands, and then-

Then, it’s like Steve’s world is torn out of orbit, a raw, angry tear. His breath stops coming and black dots the corners of his eyes just long enough to be noticed, and it feels…it feels…

It _feels_.

It’s like a dam opens up in the back of Steve’s mind and he can feel _everything_ ; every fleeting emotion that’s pushed down by a gray wall, every nudge against the wall from the instincts of the bond.

“ _Bucky_?”

The Winter Soldier – _BuckyBuckyohgod **Bucky**_ – opens his mouth and rips Steve to pieces.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re a real punk, you know that?”

Half of Bucky’s words aren’t making any sense to you. You’re blinking in and out of consciousness as it is, with blood in your ears and a split lip and all of your meager weight on Bucky.

He unlocks the door without letting you fall – you’ve never been able to pull that off – and gets you inside, ushering you towards the small bathroom in the back of the apartment. He sits you down on the toilet lid before rushing out of the room, though you don’t know why. He’s back a moment later anyway, just in time to grab your shoulders and right you before you fall into the edge of the bathtub.

“Jesus H, Stevie,” Bucky mutters, and there is worry in his tone more than exasperation. “I told you not to pick a fight with those guys. I told you they were bad news.”

“I wasn’t gonna let them gang up on some little kid, Buck,” your words come out like molasses.

“Maybe you should’a,” Bucky mutters, smoothing your hair away from your forehead. “They really tore into you.”

“S’alright. I’m still breathin’.”

“Yeah, for now. What about when they come after you tomorrow? Or the day after? Or after that?”

“Bucky,” you complain, pulling away from him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re concussed is what you are.” Bucky takes your face again, tilting your head this way and that, peering into your eyes. “You can’t die on me, Stevie. Not now, not tomorrow. You got that?”

“Yeah, you jerk,” you mumble, swaying a bit on your seat. It’s alright, though. Bucky is in front of you, and he’ll just catch you if you fall.

“I’m serious, Steve. Don’t die on me, okay? I need ya, okay?”

You grunt, and though Bucky isn’t making sense to you right now, in the morning you’ll wonder if this is how Bucky tells you he’s in love with you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s strange, falling.

It’s not something that Steve should be at peace with – he’s leaving behind a lot of good people that he isn’t sure have survived the mission – but he is. There’s something poetic about it, almost. He couldn’t save Bucky back then, on the train. He couldn’t reach just a little further, he couldn’t grab Bucky and toss him back into the hole they’d been blasted out of.

Why, then, would Bucky save him?

He wouldn’t, and Steve is alright with that. He knows he made some kind of dent in whatever Hydra did to Bucky. He knows that Bucky has heard enough to want answers. He knows that there is no more Hydra (at least, not _here_ ) for Bucky to go back to, so at least he’ll be free of that.

Bucky will heal. He’ll have to. He may not ever remember Steve, or their bond – even if the Winter Soldier seemed to – and he’ll move on. He’s always been good at adapting, and Bucky has never really needed Steve as much as Steve has needed him.

Promise me, Bucky’s voice echoes in his mind, a ghost of something nobody but Steve remembers, that you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.

Sorry, Buck, Steve feels his eyes slip closed. It looks like he wasn’t able to keep that promise either.

His body hits the water, and everything goes dark.

 

 

 

Steve wakes slowly, reluctantly, the traces of a warm dream slipping away. There’s music playing around him, and for a sinking moment Steve is worried he’ll open his eyes and another seventy years will have passed. He’s sore – limbs aching and skin feeling raw – though, which gives a sense of comfort that it probably shouldn’t.

Steve opens his eyes and finds himself staring at a gray hospital wall.

(He doesn’t think about how it’s slightly disappointing that he opens his eyes to begin with.

He feels it, though, and an answering ring of something tentative and familiar.)

Sam is on his right, head ducked down in what might be sleep. Steve smiles, then winces, but he’s grateful that Sam is there. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve Sam as a friend, but he’s glad to have him all the same.

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way it stings his throat. “On your-”

“Don’t even say it,” Sam looks up, but his scowl quickly turns into a smile.

Steve manages one of his own before wincing again. “What happened?” He has to know. He has to know if starting the firefight at SHIELD was worth it. If putting the lives of hundreds in danger so he could talk to Bucky one more ( _last_ ) time would weigh on him forever.

“Well, you’ve been out for a few days,” Sam sits back in his chair, propping a foot up on one of the rails of the medical bay. “We won. At least, this fight. Your boss thinks there’s more fightin’ to be had overseas.”

Steve grunts, “he’s not my boss.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughs, “I guess that’s true. Natasha had a press conference. She basically told the government to go, uh. Well, I’m sure you’ll see it on the news at some point. It’s all they’ve been showing.”

Steve nods, taking slow, methodic breaths. “Bucky?”

Sam sighs, pressing his lips together. “Steve-”

“The last thing I remember is hitting the river. Who pulled me out?”

Sam groans, like he can’t deal with Steve’s self-destructive focus. “Yeah, your boy dragged your ass out of the river. We found you, and him, on the bank, and he was holding onto you like you were some creepy, wet ragdoll. No offense.”

Steve sits up quickly, then immediately regrets it. Pain shoots through his torso, hunching him.

“Lay down, man. You aren’t going anywhere for a while.”

“I have to-. I have to find him, Sam, you don’t understand-”

“That’s not going to be a big problem.” Sam drops his foot, tone even, like he’s not watching Captain America beg to go after someone who’d almost killed him.

“What?” Steve’s heart nearly stops.

“What? No, shit Steve, he isn’t dead,” Sam hurries to reassure him. “He disappeared for a while when we brought you here, but Natasha got a call from Stark a few hours after you stabilized. Barnes turned himself in.”

 

 

 

They’re keeping Bucky in the basement of Stark Tower, in what’s loosely being used as the headquarters of whatever organization that's going to take SHIELDs place. Dr. Banner tells Steve that they don’t keep him shackled – Bucky is there of his own will, even on the days he demands to be given a mission or a target or a bullet to-

Steve isn’t going to think about that.

He listens to the lecture Stark gives him about keeping secrets from the team with what Steve thinks is a good-natured tone. He listens to Natasha warn him about the ways Bucky could be playing them, or waiting to see Steve so he can finish his last mission. He listens to Sam give him pointers about recognizing when the bond is trying to shut him out and when it’s daring him to come closer.

(Steve will always come closer, if it’s Bucky that’s daring him.)

He listens to the lectures and the pointers for two days before he can’t take it anymore. On the third day, he wakes before the rest of the team and takes the stairs down to the basement. The SHIELD staff on-duty give him little acknowledgement other than polite nods.

Steve doesn’t return them. He only has eyes for the large cell – because that’s what it is – on the other side of the room. The entire front wall is made from one-way glass, so Steve knows even as Bucky looks up that he can’t really _see_ him.

“I’m going in there,” Steve gives each of the guards a pointed look.

“Captain-”

“I’m going in there, and I don’t want to give you trouble, but if you try to stop me you’ll have it.”

Hardly a moment passes before Steve is at the door to the cell, keying in the code that he’d all but begged Jarvis to give him. The door slides open with a hiss, and Bucky doesn’t even look at him as he enters. Steve doesn’t let the lack of response stop him – not, at least, until he’s standing a few feet from the edge of the bed where Bucky is pressed against the wall, mismatched arms wrapped around his stomach.

“Bucky?”

Bucky stares straight ahead, right through him, as if he’s not there at all.

“Bucky?” Steve tries again. “Bucky, please talk to me.”

Bucky’s eyes – still cold, still blank – flick up to Steve’s for a fleeting moment. “What do you want me to say?”

Steve shifts between his feet. “I. Whatever you want, Bucky. Anything.”

Bucky stares at him for a hard moment before turning his gaze back to the wall. “The Widow questioned me about Hydra. The Iron Man questioned me about the weapon. What are you here to question me about, Captain?”

Steve swallows at the dull note in Bucky’s voice at the mention of the weapon – what Steve can only assume is his arm. “Nothing. I just-. I had to see you.”

“You have a question.”

Steve takes a breath, folding his arms and looking down. There’s an ache throbbing in his chest, and his eyes sting. The feelings are mostly his, but not entirely.

“It’s more like an apology, really,” he presses the heel of his hand to his eye. “You saved my life. You pulled me from the river, even when you didn’t…don’t remember me.”

“I remember you,” Bucky interrupts bluntly. “Captain America. Blond hair, blue eyes. Operative of SHIELD, clearance level-”

Steve knows his expression drops at the list of statistics. He nods slowly. “Yeah, Buck. That’s not really me, though.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows, mouth drawing into a frown. “My information is inaccurate.”

“Well. No. That’s just Captain America, though. I’m not always Captain America,” Steve tries to smile, “sometimes I’m just-”

“Steve Rogers.”

“Yeah.”

“Steve,” Bucky repeats, “you shouldn’t be in here.”

Steve freezes, hearing the change in Bucky’s tone almost immediately.

“Bucky?”

“I’m serious, Steve. You need to go. They’re going to put me down, and hell, I deserve it, but I don’t want you to watch.”

“ _Bucky_!”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things, Stevie. I didn’t even hate all of them. You should go.”

“No!” Steve steps forward. “I’m not leaving, Buck.”

“I’m not Bucky anymore, Steve.” He laughs hollowly. “I’m not. They took that away from me and pushed what they wanted into my head. It’s goddamn crowded in here, Steve.”

“They aren’t going to execute you,” Steve says. “They’re my team, they follow my orders, and I’d _never_ give them that order.”

Bucky snorts, looking away.

“Bucky, you weren’t given a choice in what you did. They tortured you for…for decades. It’s not your fault.”

“I pulled the trigger.”

“You _were_ the trigger,” Steve argues. “Hydra pulled it, not you.”

“Steve, just _go_.”

“No. No, Bucky. We’re in this together, okay? That’s what having a bond means.”

“I don’t have a mark anymore, Steve,” Bucky waves his left hand – dull, metal, foreign – humorlessly. “I can’t feel what you’re feeling.”

“I can feel you,” Steve says, looking around the room just long enough to find a chair. He hurries to drag it over to Bucky’s side, dropping his weight onto it carelessly. “Bits and pieces. Even when you were the Winter Soldier.”

“I still _am_.”

“Then I can still feel you.”

“Steve-”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, Buck. I’m not. I’m not going to give up on you, though. You didn’t deserve anything that happened to you, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t reach you in time, but-. Shit,” Steve scrubs at his eyes. “I’m here now, and I’m not leaving.”

Bucky sucks in air like his lungs are full of holes. For a long time, they sit in silence, Steve staring at Bucky (taking him in, cataloguing his changes, committing them to memory) while Bucky stares at the metal fingers of his own hand.

After what feels like hours, Bucky speaks again.

“I’m broken.”

“Nah,” Steve’s smile feels fragile. “You’re just a little banged up, is all. We match.”

“Captain America is a little banged up?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

Bucky stares at him again. “You would have let me kill you.”

Steve swallows, but keeps his shoulders squared. “I would have.”

“You’re broken.”

“I think most people are, in their own ways.” Steve reaches out cautiously, settling his hand on Bucky’s newer one. “You’re here to keep me out of trouble, though.”

“Nothing could keep you out of trouble,” Bucky spits, and despite the tone being hostile, the words give Steve hope.

Bucky changes again – in his eyes, and Steve gets a small sunburst of feeling in his chest – pulling his hand from Steve’s.

“What?”

“We’re never going to be okay,” Bucky says. “I’m not-.”

“Hey,” Steve presses his knuckles to Bucky’s leg. “We’ll be fine.”

Bucky is silent for a moment. “Captain America never tells lies.”

“He might,” Steve says, “but Steve Rogers is always honest, and that’s who I am right now.”

Bucky blinks, shifting away from Steve again. He narrows his eyes at the wall across from them, digging his fingers into his knees.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you…” Bucky glances at him. “Are you still my guy?”

Steve sucks in air more sharply than intended, and he can feel the stinging in his eyes return. He wipes at his eyes hurriedly, letting out a laugh that sounds a little like a sob. “Yeah, Buck. Always.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> shamelessly taking Steve and Bucky's interchangeable lines from Buffy S3E17 "Enemies"


End file.
